


Black Sealing Wax

by cyankelpie



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Awkward Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale Gets a Hug, Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale Needs a Hug (Good Omens), But without the hurt, Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Heaven is Terrible (Good Omens), Holy Water, Letters, Light Angst, Love Confessions, Neither of them knows how to take a complement, Other, Podfic Available, Post-Scene: Soho 1967 (Good Omens), The Night At Crowley's Flat (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-05
Updated: 2020-12-05
Packaged: 2021-03-10 02:20:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,266
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27886678
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cyankelpie/pseuds/cyankelpie
Summary: Fifty-two years ago, Crowley wrote a letter to be found and read by Aziraphale if he needed to use the holy water and things went south. The night after Armageddon, while Crowley rests, Aziraphale finds that letter.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 45
Kudos: 316
Collections: Aspec-friendly Good Omens





	1. 1967

The sun was coming up. Crowley hadn’t realized it had been so long, but he’d apparently spent the whole night sitting at his writing desk and staring at the tartan thermos. Aziraphale was never supposed to know about the church heist. Judging by how he had reacted the first time Crowley had broached the subject, Crowley thought he would be furious if he found out. Except, instead of shouting at Crowley and refusing to speak to him for another eighty years, he had shown up to give Crowley the very thing he was looking for.

There was already a secret space prepared for it behind his Mona Lisa sketch, and the lock wouldn’t open for anyone but him. With luck, he’d never need to open the safe, and if he did then he’d be the one with his finger on the trigger, not hell. Crowley loved life far too much to kill himself. He’d be careful. But he knew what Aziraphale was afraid of, and it looked like handing over that thermos had physically hurt him. Crowley owed it to him to take his fears seriously.

_You go too fast for me, Crowley._

Over the years, Crowley had developed a tightrope-walk between pushing Aziraphale too much and leaving him firmly within his comfort zone, and he’d only slipped up a handful of times. He had to go slow, for the angel’s sake. There were certain things he couldn’t say without ensuring Aziraphale would push him away for the final time. But if something happened to him…

He straightened, cracked his back, and bent to retrieve a sheet of paper from the drawer of the desk. He plucked his favorite pen out of the stand on his desk and drew a deep breath. If anyone but himself opened the safe, Crowley was already as good as done for. It didn’t matter what he said, as long as none of it led to Aziraphale. He started to write.

_Angel,_

Humans called each other pet names like that all the time. Crowley had submitted a whole report on it. They’d have no reason to suspect that this one was literal.

_If you’re reading this, it means I’ve had to use the thermos you gave me, and something went wrong. I’m sorry. I always meant to be careful with it._ He paused, then added, _I hope you never do read this._

_You told me that I go too fast for you, and I know that. I’ve tried to go your speed, even if you might never be ready. I’m writing this in case I never get a chance to say everything I want to say to you. It might not be easy, but please read the whole thing._

Crowley paused. He wanted to pour his heart out right there, but what would be the point? If Aziraphale read this, it would mean that Crowley was dead, or worse. What good was the love of a dead demon? It would only make Aziraphale miserable. If Crowley was gone, what would Aziraphale need to know?

_Angel, I need you to know how brilliant you are. Humanity probably owes its survival to that sword you gave away on the day I met you. You fuss and worry constantly about whether you’ve done the right thing, but like I said then, I don’t think it’s possible for you to do the wrong one. You couldn’t stand not to, even when it went against orders. I don’t just mean the sword. Remember those little girls you pulled from the flood? They never stopped talking about you. Or that earthquake where the hospital just happened to wait until everyone was out before it collapsed, or all those banned books you squirreled away and preserved? I could go on. My point is, you do what’s right, whatever those bastards you work for tell you, and I can guarantee you that you’ve done more Good than all of them combined. You care for the world in a way none of them do. Hell, you even had kindness to spare for a demon who just wanted to bother the first person he saw. You could have easily left me to soak in the rain. I_

Crowley was on the verge of confessing his feelings again, but this wasn’t about him. Instead, he wrote,

_I never told you this, but I fully expected you to smite me that day. Any decent angel would have. Of course, you’re not just a decent angel, you’re an extraordinary one. An angel who cares for all life on Earth, even that of a demon._

No, he couldn’t write that. If another demon found the letter and knew it was intended for an angel, it wouldn’t be hard to guess which one. He scratched out the word “angel” where it appeared and scribbled “person of your profession” above it, and similarly replaced “smite” with “get rid of.” Clunky, but Aziraphale would understand.

_You know by now that I can’t stand those self-righteous pricks you work for. Don’t worry, I’m not going to tell you to quit. I’d never ask you to do that. But I’ve always hated the way they treat you. Somehow, they’ve given you the idea that you’re not better than any of them, which just isn’t true. You’re the best of the bunch. Maybe they know that, and maybe it scares them, which is why they try so hard to keep you down. Don’t buy into it, angel. Don’t let them tell you what’s right and what’s wrong. You already know the difference better than they do. Trust yourself, like you did the day we met._

Crowley paused for a second and looked down at what he’d written. He couldn’t stand the idea of Aziraphale alone on Earth, under heaven’s thumb, with nobody to validate him or challenge what they told him or show him that he was better than they told him he was. That was all Crowley had ever really wanted. Aziraphale had made progress, but if Crowley was gone…

There was no point thinking about it. He picked up the pen again, his hand shaking a little.

_I’ve probably bad-mouthed your bosses enough that you’ve stopped reading by now. I hope you’ll pick this letter up again and finish it later. I might even pray for it, if I was feeling blasphemous (or unblasphamous, since I am of course always feeling blasphemous). I’d tell you in person, but you probably wouldn’t speak to me for a century, and I’m too selfish to give up your company like that. But I wish you could see what I see in you. I wish I knew how to make you believe me._

_I’m sorry again to leave you like this. Take care of yourself, since I won’t be around to. Try to control your cravings for French cuisine during any future revolutions, and keep an eye out for double-crossing spies. When your boss gets that condescending tone, go right back home and sit with a cup of Darjeeling and a copy of Shakespeare (one of the funny ones) and remember that you’re so much more than what they see. You’re the bravest, kindest, most selfless person I’ve ever met. As far as I’m aware, you’re the best damn thing She ever created._

_Yours (always),_

_A. J. Crowley_

Couldn’t resist signing it with a confession like that, could he? Crowley frowned at his own selfishness, but he didn’t know how else to sign the letter without being cold. “Your friend,” maybe, or “your enemy” if he wanted to be ironic. Come to think of it, maybe he should have written in a few more jokes. The whole letter was pretty gloomy. He could burn this draft and rewrite the whole thing, but he had already felt drained when he got back to his flat, and now it was like he’d scraped out his insides with a spoon. He didn’t have it in him to start from scratch.

_P.S. Since I’m sure you’ve always wanted to know, the J stands for “just,” as in, “Anthony?” “Just Crowley,” except I fudged the delivery because some Nazi had a gun to your head and the whole thing was very distracting. I admit it wasn’t my best joke, anyway._

_P.P.S. Tartan is not stylish. I will have the last word on this, and I’m not sorry._

_P.P.P.S. Somehow, though, you still manage to make tartan look good._

Crowley read the letter over one more time, scratching out any references to heaven or any details that would point too clearly to Aziraphale. It didn’t communicate half of what he’d like to say, and he doubted it would be enough to convince Aziraphale, but it was the best he could do right now. Maybe later he’d come back and rewrite it. He knew he wouldn’t.

He folded up the letter, slid it into an envelope, and wrote an A on the back before sealing it with black wax, the color usually used to inform recipients of a death. He’d put it in the safe with the holy water, leave the door open if he needed to use it, and close it again when he was done. If something happened in between, Aziraphale would search for him at his flat, find the open safe with the letter inside, and know what had happened.

Crowley would do his best to ensure Aziraphale never read that letter.


	2. 2019

Crowley groaned as his alarm went off. He would have rolled back over and gone to sleep, except he knew he only set his alarm when he needed to be somewhere. It was still dark out. What appointment did he have before dawn today?

_Choose your faces wisely._

Ah, right. That. That was important enough to get out of bed for.

He rubbed his eyes, stretched, and snapped himself into some proper clothes. No wonder he felt like shit, he’d only had about two hours of sleep. He and Aziraphale had reached his flat well after midnight, spent a good chunk of time puzzling over Agnes’ last prophecy, and then practiced being each other for several hours. Crowley had refused to go to sleep until Aziraphale could do a convincing enough saunter that the plants trembled at his approach. He was so exhausted by the time Aziraphale managed it that he accidentally tried to strike up a conversation with the Aziraphale he saw in the mirror, and they both decided their acts were good enough to fool their bosses.

He went into the bathroom, splashed water on his face, and drew a deep breath. Everything would be fine. Aziraphale was probably in the kitchen with one of the few books Crowley owned open on the table in front of him, serenely sipping a cup of miracled tea. The image calmed him. He styled his hair more carelessly than usual and stepped out into the hallway.

There was a light on in the living room, so Crowley followed it. “Morning, Aziraphale,” he called. “How d’you feel about me drinking coffee in your corporation? Cause I could really use a cup, but I don’t want to hold up—”

He stepped into the room and broke off. Aziraphale glanced up from the sofa with a strained smile, his eyes red around the edges. He had been crying. There was a letter open in his lap, and an open envelope with a black seal on the coffee table.

It seemed a year ago that Crowley had opened the safe to take out the thermos. Somewhere between running from Hastur in the phone lines, and jumping into the Bentley to race to the bookshop, he had completely forgotten to shut it again. Aziraphale must have found it while looking for a book to keep himself busy while Crowley slept. Crowley shifted uncomfortably. “You, ah, found that.”

Aziraphale nodded, his eyes flitting down.

“You were never supposed to read it.” Crowley stepped forward to take it from him. “Sorry—It’s too much. Here, I’ll just—”

When Crowley reached for the letter, Aziraphale pulled it back an inch. A tiny movement, but enough to make Crowley pause. “It is too much,” said Aziraphale, without looking him in the eye. “Crowley, you—you can’t possibly have meant all of this.” His voice broke.

A confusing mix of emotions swirled in Crowley’s chest. “Then why the heaven would I’ve written it? Meant every word.” He pushed his hands into his pockets. “Still do.”

Aziraphale covered his mouth with one hand. Crowley was afraid he might start sobbing again, but he managed to choke it down and draw a sharp breath. “I had no idea.”

Very slowly, as if the angel might spook and run away, Crowley sat down on the corner of the sofa. He pulled a handkerchief from thin air and held it out to Aziraphale. “Sorry. We can just, um, forget about it, if you want.”

“Forget—? Why would—” Aziraphale shook his head. “Why on Earth would you be sorry?”

“You’re crying.” Crowley nudged the handkerchief further towards him without looking.

“Oh.” Aziraphale’s hand brushed Crowley’s fingers as he took it. “I simply—I didn’t realize that you…that you saw me that way.”

Crowley looked down, hunched over his hands. This wasn’t how he’d imagined this conversation would go. He was supposed to have all sorts of eloquent things prepared to say, but he’d already put most of them in the letter, and writing was much easier than speaking face-to-face. “It’s all true, you know,” he said, though it came out mumbled. “I mean, I know you pretty well by now, I like to think. So I think I’d know. You’re…” he waved vaguely in the direction of the letter. “All those things.”

It was quiet. Crowley heard the rustle of paper, and Aziraphale made a noise that was half a laugh and half a sob. “You were certainly right about heaven. You always saw what they were, I just—”

“Angel.” Crowley looked up.

Aziraphale struggled again to hold back tears, waving his hands in frustration. The handkerchief and the letter flapped in the air “—I was too stupid to—”

“Propaganda does that to you. It’s alright.” Crowley put a hand on his shoulder. “You never have to go back there again.”

Aziraphale wiped his eyes with the handkerchief, drew a shuddering breath, and sagged as he let it out. At some point, Crowley’s thumb started rubbing back and forth along the material of Aziraphale’s shirt. He stopped when he realized what he was doing and gave Aziraphale’s shoulder a reassuring squeeze instead. “I’ll give ‘em hell when I get up there,” he said in a lighter tone. “Think of Gabriel’s face when he realizes he can’t stop me. Or Sandalphon. Bet he’d get so angry he’d just explode like a balloon.”

Aziraphale turned to him with a tearstained smile and reached up to place his hand on top of Crowley’s. For a long moment, they just sat there in silence. “You were wrong about one thing at least, my dear,” said Aziraphale. “I’m not extraordinary for caring for a demon. It’s rather difficult not to, when it’s you.”

Crowley’s face warmed. “Don’t get maudlin on me now, angel.”

“Well, I’m sorry I can’t be as eloquent as you.” Aziraphale let go of his hand and folded up the letter to put back into the envelope, handling it with a care and reverence he usually reserved for priceless 16th-century manuscripts. “Crowley…”

He turned toward Crowley, his eyes full of tears and worry and something Crowley didn’t know how to name, but before he said whatever he was preparing to say, his eyes flicked to the windows. “Ah—Is it morning already?” he said, straightening his waistcoat. “I suppose we should switch places then.”

Crowley had straightened expectantly when Aziraphale looked at him. He let some of the tension out of his body, nodded, and held out a hand. “Right.”

Aziraphale looked at the hand, then back to his face, some strong emotion building behind those expressive eyes. Crowley could see the moment that it spilled over. Instead of taking the proffered hand, Aziraphale leaned forward and wrapped his arms around Crowley.

“Wh—” Crowley’s first instinct was to push away from Aziraphale, but, no, he didn’t want to do that. He couldn’t quite keep his balance with Aziraphale holding on to him, and he couldn’t decide what to do with his arms. “Aziraphale—”

“I love you,” Aziraphale whispered. “So please, come back in one piece.”

“Y-you…” Crowley shivered. One of his hands came to rest on Aziraphale’s lower back, and the other on his side. Nobody smote him down, and neither of them exploded, so he snaked his arms tighter around Aziraphale’s waist. For a brief moment, he and Aziraphale held each other, and then a tingling sensation spread over his skin and he was holding his own skinny body instead. He let go. “Sorry,” he said in Aziraphale’s voice. “It’s a bit weird, hugging yourself.”

“I quite understand.” A smile flickered on Crowley’s, now Aziraphale’s, face, like he wasn’t sure it was supposed to be there but it kept coming back anyway. It was odd, seeing his own face so open and full of emotion.

Crowley doubted he was doing much better hiding his emotion, but he didn’t want to admit it. “We need to get you some sunglasses,” he said, getting to his feet.

“Oh—goodness, I’ve forgotten all of last night’s acting lessons.” Aziraphale’s spine loosened as he leaned back against the sofa. “There we go. How’s that?”

“Better,” said Crowley, looking up. He turned to go through his desk drawers and find out which one had his spare sunglasses, found a pair, and shuffled back with Aziraphale’s usual tiny steps and straight-backed posture. “There you are,” he said, affecting an unnecessarily posh tone as he handed them to Aziraphale. “Bob’s your uncle.”

Aziraphale shot him a look that was probably supposed to be annoyed, but the fondness in his eyes undercut the sentiment. He unfolded the sunglasses and put them on. “I suppose we should split up, then, like we planned. I’ll check on things around Mayfair, and you can go back…”

“Back to Soho,” Crowley finished. Hopefully he’d find things there different than when he’d left them. He didn’t know if he could handle seeing the ruined bookshop, but it would wreck Aziraphale if he had to see it first.

Aziraphale nodded. “Let’s get going, then.”

Neither of them stood up. Now, after everything that had happened, the idea of leaving Aziraphale’s side was almost unbearable.

“You will be alright,” Aziraphale said in a near-whisper. “You’ll come back to me. Won’t you?”

“Only if you will.”

They sat there and looked at each other for a few minutes longer. Crowley couldn’t have said what was going through his mind, only that he needed to be near Aziraphale for just a little while longer. He’d go up to heaven, show those bastards what sort of angel they were dealing with, and make certain they never went near Aziraphale again. But it could wait another minute or two.

At the same time, by unspoken agreement, they both stood up from the sofa. Aziraphale went to the door and put a hand on the knob, and then his posture relaxed as he got properly into character. Crowley did the same, centering his weight over his feet and clasping his hands over his middle. They nodded to each other. “I’ll see you again soon, my dear,” said Aziraphale, and then opened the door.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] Black Sealing Wax by cyankelpie](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28467456) by [TheLordOfLaMancha](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheLordOfLaMancha/pseuds/TheLordOfLaMancha)




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